


All The World's A Stage

by lachatblanche



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Theatre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lachatblanche/pseuds/lachatblanche
Summary: The performance has begun but their Harlequin is nowhere to be found!In which Scaramouche - or Erik - goes in search of a lost Harlequin - or, as he is better known, Charles.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21
Collections: Secret Mutant Madness 2020





	All The World's A Stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [widgenstain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [widgenstain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widgenstain/pseuds/widgenstain) in the [secret_mutant_madness_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/secret_mutant_madness_2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> The X-men are a historical acting troupe in the likes of [Commedia dell'arte](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commedia_dell%27arte). I'll leave the plot to the author, is it a fun trip like the commedia plays themselves? Or more gore-y (also like the plays themselves)? Maybe they get chased by evil zealots and/or horny admirers (Trask chasing Raven comes to mind) maybe they have their internal creative differences, maybe there's a plague (yeah, I know) hindering them in their performances. All I want is a historical acting AU with colourful costumes, even more colourful language and, most importantly, A LOT of found family feelings.

‘Erik!’ hissed a voice behind the entrance to the tent and Erik paused in the application of his greasepaint to look up to see who it was who had called him. The sound of laughter caught his ears, drifting in from the stage – just a few metres away, but an actual clean, platformed stage, a far cry from the mud pits they used to frequent – and his brow furrowed when he saw the face peering in at him from the tent flaps.

‘Emma?’ he asked with a frown, making one last dab at his cheek with the white paint before setting the horsehair brush down. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘ _Wrong?’_ Emma scowled and darted inside the tent, casting a dark look at the stage behind her. ‘We seem to have lost our Harlequin, and we have mere minutes before he is required back on stage, but no, of course not, _nothing_ is _wrong_.’

Emma – previously the beautiful Columbine in their show – was now mistress behind the curtain, keeping her eye on everything from the company’s costumes to their account-book. She ran the place with a firm hand and while she had been an exquisite Columbine, she had proved herself to be a _masterful_ manageress and was, in her own words, much the happier for it.

Part of her mastery as a manageress came from her ability to demand things from the rest of the company without actually having to _demand_ them and Erik found himself sighing in resignation and pulling himself away from the looking-glass with only a brief look of regret at the mess-strewn worktop.

When Emma wanted something, he’d found, it was best to go ahead and do it without question – and in any case, he was not due on stage for another ten minutes yet.

‘I will find him,’ he said wearily, unfolding himself from his chair and stretching out his limbs. ‘How far have we got? Has Pierrot kissed Pierette yet?’

A loud, wistful sigh drifted in from the audience and Emma smirked. ‘I think that’s a yes,’ she said, her mouth quirking upwards. Then the smile left her face and she frowned. ‘We need our Harlequin on stage _now_ , Erik. Or would _you_ prefer to give the Lover’s speech in his place?’

Erik shuddered. The Lover’s speech was a long and elaborate meditation on the power of love and it was entirely too filled with sap and earnestness for Erik’s liking. Perfect, perhaps, for Harlequin (and unsurprisingly so, given that it was their Harlequin himself who had crafted the speech – and indeed the vast majority of their theatrical productions, Erik thought wryly), but hardly the sort of thing that Scaramouche would be found spouting. His character was much like Erik himself in that regard – more given to blunt acerbity than romantic oratory.

‘Thank goodness for Raven,’ Emma was saying, shaking her head. ‘She can improvise better than anyone and can think of something to fill in the time before he turns up. She could almost give Charles a run for his money if she could only train herself to sit still and get it all down on paper.’

‘Almost,’ Erik agreed, picking up the mask that would go on to cover his eyes and nose and at last make him into Scaramouche, and tying the ribbons on either end onto the loop of his belt. ‘But not quite.’ He exited the tent, making his way past Emma and heading off in search of their lost Harlequin.

There were plenty of people milling about, trying to crane their necks to get a better look at the stage. They had made some attempt at roping off the area around the platform and trying to block out any non-paying audience members – their defensive jealousy over their performance was, Erik recalled darkly, a remnant of their time as a troupe under the previous regime – but they were a lot laxer about that now than they had previously been. ‘Let them see us, if they really want to,’ Charles had said, smiling in that easy way of his. ‘Maybe next time, they’ll like us well enough to buy a ticket.’

Erik wasn’t too sure about that but he trusted Charles enough to follow his lead. Charles, after all, was the de facto leader of the troupe, for all that he had initially protested against it. He didn’t want it, he was the newest member of the troupe bar Raven, he wouldn’t be any good at it … but, as it had turned out, he was good at it and the company had been rewarded for their faith when he had not only churned out half a dozen new scripts and concepts within a week – each of them infinitely superior to the previous tired and overworked scenarios they had been made to perform over and over again – but had, within the month, made them richer and happier than they had ever been while under Sebastian Shaw, their previous tyrannical leader.

Erik frowned slightly as he remembered Shaw, his face darkening. Shaw had been gone for nearly a year now but the memory of him was enough to darken Erik’s mood. A man less suited for a travelling _Comedie_ troupe, Erik had never seen – unless he looked at himself in the mirror, he conceded – and a man of less generous and creative spirit there could seldom have been. He was Charles’s opposite in every regard – in inspiration, in generosity, in kindness, in looks – 

Erik paused there, his frown returning but for a different reason now. He considered the thought. That Charles was handsome there was no doubt; when he and his sister Raven had first wandered into the midst of the acting troupe and asked to be taken in, Shaw’s eyes had gleamed with the promise of gold and Charles had been summarily thrust into the role of Aurelio, the cherubically handsome, gallant and courteous lover, while Raven had been cast – slightly more reluctantly on her part – as the beautiful and delicate damsel Lavinia, the lover of Aurelio. If Charles had ever found it distasteful to pretend to woo his own sister, he had never said so out loud; Raven, in fairness, did the complaining for the both of them.

Erik, for his part, had been stuck in the role of Zanni, the clown, and he had hated it with a ferocity that now, on looking back, made him wonder why he hadn’t just resigned from the troupe years before. Charles, however, had seen past the pratfalls and the idiocy and, one day, while they had been sitting together taking in the evening air on the back of a hay cart, Erik voicing his sarcastic opinion about Shaw’s new idea for the troupe, he had turned to Erik with a speculative look in his intelligent blue eyes and had said, ‘You know, Erik, you would make a wonderful Scaramouche.’

Nothing had come of it then; Shaw was still in charge, for one, and for another, Shaw’s preferred version of Scaramouche was a sly, cringing little beast and not at all what Erik was keen on playing – though of course he would have preferred anything over the foolish Zanni. Shaw had then been ousted, however, and within a week, Charles was at his side again, flushed and bright and handing him an entirely new script, written in a neat, elegant hand.

‘There,’ he had said, half triumphant, half daring. ‘See what you make of that.’

Erik had looked and had then frowned. ‘It’s good,’ he had admitted, a little puzzled. ‘Very good. But there is no part here for Zanni.’

Charles had looked at him then and the fondness had made Erik’s heart beat that little bit faster. ‘No, there isn’t,’ he had agreed. ‘But there is Scaramouche. And you, my friend, are Scaramouche.’

And so Erik became Scaramouche – not the sly, weaselly servant of Pantalone, but the sharp, quick-witted hero who revealed hidden truths, who defended the weak, who spoke out in words that were witty and blunt but held a deep core of truth within them.

Erik could have loved Charles for little else but that; as it was, his feelings of tenderness had started long before Charles had ever first dubbed him Scaramouche.

As if his thoughts had summoned him, like a sprite called to a charm, Charles suddenly appeared beside Erik, smiling widely, the paint on his face smudged and his black eye-mask askew.

‘Had fun?’ Erik asked dryly.

Charles gave him a rueful smile and rubbed self-consciously at his face.

‘I was waylaid by Alma behind the tent,’ he said in apology. ‘She – er – seemed to be affected by Harlequin’s powers.’

‘Clearly,’ Erik smirked.

Charles sighed and looked down at the smeared paint on his fingers. ‘Is it very bad?’ he asked, apprehensive, turning his face to Erik.

Erik looked him over. ‘You’ll do,’ he said calmly. ‘But you might want to hurry back – Emma will likely murder you if you miss your grand speech. That’s what half the audience are here for, apparently.’

Charles let out a groan. ‘Oh lord, don’t tell me I’m late.’ He glanced at Erik even as he picked up his pace, heading for the stage. ‘Have Pierrot and Pierette—’

‘They’ve kissed, yes.’

Charles winced. ‘Emma _is_ going to murder me,’ he said sadly.

‘I’m sure you can sweet-talk your way out of it,’ Erik said, unperturbed. 

They reached the edge of the stage, just behind the curtain, where Emma was hovering, glaring at them. She hissed furiously at Charles and then gave a sharp nod to the stage, where Raven caught her eye and began to wind down what appeared to be a very colourful and almost violent outpouring of love for Alex, her Pierrot.

Charles took a deep breath and then turned to look at Erik. ‘How do I look?’ he asked, his eyes bright with the thrill that came from preparing to go on stage.

Erik eyed him thoughtfully and then reached out and adjusted the mask on Charles’s face. ‘Perfect,’ he said, dropping his hands to his side.

Charles beamed at him and then, at Emma’s nod, turned and slipped onto the stage, a wave of cheers welcoming his return.

Erik looked after him, watching as Charles threw out his arms and used them to snatch up his audience, ensnaring them with his words and capturing them with the sound of his voice. After a moment, he became aware that he was being regarded himself, and he turned around to see Emma watching him, a knowing look in her eyes.

‘Oh, sugar,’ she murmured, her voice low and gently teasing as the other troupe members started to gather up around them, ready to enter on stage for the wedding scene. ‘You’ve got it _bad_.’

Erik did not answer. Like Scaramouche, he was not one to hide away from the truth. Instead, he untied the ribbons of his mask from his belt loops and retied them around his head, settling his mask firmly into place.

When he looked back at Emma, he was Scaramouche.

She gave him a nod. ‘You’re on,’ she said.

Erik nodded back. Then he took a deep breath, and stepped onto the stage.


End file.
